Milk and Honey

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, July 10, 2026.

Before we delve into this week’s Torah portion, here’s a simple question: If you had to describe “home” in just two words, what would they be? Based on tonight’s Shabbat theme, do you see where this is going? For the Torah, the answer is “milk” and “honey.” 

Those words appear again and again throughout the Torah, not as a travel brochure or a restaurant review, but as a promise. They evoke abundance, possibility, and hope; a land flowing with milk and honey. Milk represents nourishment. Honey represents sweetness. Together they paint a picture of a place where life can flourish. 

This week we conclude both the Book of Numbers and the journeys of the wilderness with Parshat Matot-Masei. The Torah recounts the forty-two stops the Israelites made on their way from Egypt to the edge of the Promised Land. There are battles, negotiations, the establishment of cities of refuge, and detailed descriptions of the borders of the land the people are about to enter. After forty years of wandering, the destination is finally in sight. It’s striking that just as the Israelites are preparing to cross the Jordan River, the Torah pauses to remember every step along the way. Before looking forward, it looks back. Before arriving, we remember the journey. 

Tonight our theme is “Milk and Honey” Shabbat, a reminder that the Land of Israel has always held a unique place in the Jewish story. For thousands of years, Jews prayed facing Jerusalem. In exile, we ended our Seders with “Next year in Jerusalem.” Across continents and centuries, the Land of Israel remained not simply a destination, but the ancestral homeland of the Jewish people, the place where our collective story was born, where our sacred calendar took shape, and where so much of our Torah unfolded. 

Like every homeland, Israel is complex. It is a place of joy and sorrow, celebration and heartbreak, hope and challenge. Loving something does not require pretending it is simple. But complexity does not erase connection. The Torah’s repeated vision of a land flowing with milk and honey reminds us that our relationship with Israel is rooted not merely in politics or current events, but in covenant, memory, and peoplehood. 

As we close the Book of Numbers, perhaps that is our invitation. Take time to remember the journeys that have brought you where you are. Cherish the places that have shaped your identity. And ask yourself: What would it look like for me to add a little more milk and honey to the world this week? More nourishment. More sweetness. More hope. Hazak, hazak, v’nithazek. Be strong, be strong, and let us strengthen one another. 

250 Years of Freedom: A Pinchas Reflection

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, July 3, 2026.

This week our nation marks 250 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. A quarter of a millennium is worth celebrating. It’s also worth reflecting on. 

The American story has never been simple; it’s a story of breathtaking ideals and painful contradictions. A nation founded on liberty that tolerated slavery. A country that has expanded rights for generations while still wrestling with inequality, polarization, and the question of what freedom actually demands of us. Freedom, it turns out, is easier to declare than to sustain. 

That complexity makes this year’s Parshat Pinchas feel surprisingly timely. Pinchas begins with a shocking act of zealotry. It moves quickly into a census, preparing a new generation to enter the Land of Israel. There are laws of inheritance as the daughters of Tzelofchad courageously reshape the future. Joshua is appointed as Moses’s successor. And the parshah concludes with the rhythm of communal offerings that will anchor Israel’s spiritual life. 

On the surface, these stories seem disconnected. But they share a common thread: a people learning that building a nation requires far more than winning freedom. 

To paraphrase a great quote that’s often attributed to the preacher George Morrison: The Exodus got the Israelites out of Egypt. The wilderness was meant to get Egypt out of the Israelites. Freedom was never simply about crossing a sea; it was about learning how to build a society worthy of that freedom. 

Notice what dominates the parshah. Not military victories. Not miraculous plagues. Instead, we find census-taking, legal reform, leadership transition, and shared ritual. In other words: institutions. Responsibilities. Systems that outlast any one generation. 

That is the quiet genius of Torah. It reminds us that nations are not held together by moments of inspiration alone. They endure because ordinary people keep choosing covenant over chaos. 

That feels especially relevant today. The headlines can leave us exhausted. Political division, war abroad, rising antisemitism, anxiety about the future—it’s tempting to believe the center cannot hold. Yet Jewish history teaches otherwise. We’ve lived through empires rising and falling. We’ve seen democracies flourish and falter. We know that hope is not optimism; hope is a discipline. 

As America celebrates 250 years, there’s no need to pretend our country is perfect to be grateful for it. Patriotism, like love, is mature enough to celebrate what is beautiful while working honestly to repair what is broken. 

This week, let us borrow Moses’ wisdom. Invest in the next generation. Like the daughters of Tzelofchad, speak up when justice requires it. Like Joshua, lead with humility. And remember that freedom is not measured only by the rights we claim, but by the responsibilities we willingly carry for one another. 

That may be the most enduring lesson of Pinchas: the promise of a nation is never finished. Every generation inherits it, shapes it, and then places it into the hands of those who come next. May we prove worthy of the freedom we have received, and courageous enough to leave it stronger than we found it. 

Honoring Over Understanding

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered on Friday, June 26, at Congregation Neveh Shalom.

There is something deeply human about wanting an explanation. We like categories. We like certainty. We like being able to answer the question, “Why?”

But Parshat Chukat begins with a mitzvah that refuses to offer one. “Zot chukat haTorah.” This is the decree of the Torah. The red heifer is Judaism’s ultimate mystery. It purifies the impure while simultaneously rendering those who perform the ritual temporarily impure. It doesn’t fit neatly into our logic. Even our greatest sages admitted they could not fully explain it.

Perhaps the Torah is teaching us something profound before it teaches us anything else: Not everything holy has to make complete sense to us. Our tradition is built not only on understanding, but on humility. There are realities that invite us to stop trying to explain and instead begin by honoring.

As we celebrate Pride Month, I find myself returning to this idea. For generations, LGBTQIA+ Jews have been asked to explain themselves. To justify who they are. To answer questions that many of us would never think to ask of someone else.

Chukat offers a different posture. What if our first response to another person’s identity wasn’t, “Help me understand”? What if it were, “Help me honor the holiness before me”? The Torah repeatedly reminds us that every human being is created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. That truth doesn’t depend on whether I fully understand another person’s experience. It depends on my willingness to recognize God’s image reflected in them.

Ironically, Chukat is often described as the portion that teaches us the limits of certainty. That may be one of the greatest spiritual gifts we can receive, because love does not require complete understanding. Respect does not require complete understanding. Dignity does not require complete understanding. Sometimes faith asks us to embrace mystery, not because mystery is frightening, but because mystery is where God so often dwells.

Our charge this week is to practice holy humility. To resist the temptation to categorize every person we meet. To honor the sacred complexity of each soul. And to remember that the most faithful response to another human being is not always explanation. Sometimes it is simply blessing.

Strawberries in Summer

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 19.

There is something magical about the first truly good strawberry of summer. Not the pale, flavorless ones we buy in January and convince ourselves are acceptable. I mean the strawberries that arrive in June, bright red, perfectly ripe, sweet enough to make you stop mid-bite and say, “Now that tastes like summer.” 

The funny thing about strawberries is that we spend most of the year waiting for them. And when they finally arrive, we have a choice. We can savor them. Or we can immediately start wishing for something else. That tension sits at the heart of Parshat Korach. 

Our portion begins with Korach’s rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Korach gathers a coalition of dissatisfied Israelites and challenges the leadership of the community. What follows is one of the Torah’s most dramatic conflicts: accusations, power struggles, divine judgment, and ultimately a reaffirmation of Aaron’s role as High Priest through the miraculous blossoming of his staff. 

At first glance, Korach’s complaint sounds noble. “All the community is holy,” he argues. And in a sense, he is right. Every Israelite stood at Sinai. Every person possesses dignity and holiness. But the commentators note that Korach’s argument was not truly about holiness. It was about envy. He could not appreciate the role he had because he was consumed by the role he did not have. 

The rabbis teach in Pirkei Avot: “Who is rich? One who rejoices in their portion.” Korach had many gifts. He was respected, influential, and entrusted with sacred responsibilities. Yet instead of appreciating the sweetness already in his hands, he focused on what belonged to someone else. Like standing in a strawberry field and complaining that there aren’t peaches. 

Summer has a way of reminding us of this lesson. The season invites us to slow down, notice, and enjoy what is actually present. The long evenings. Time with family. A walk after dinner. A bowl of fresh berries. These moments may seem small, but they are the ingredients of a meaningful life. 

Korach teaches us what happens when dissatisfaction becomes our default setting. Aaron’s flowering staff teaches the opposite lesson: when we nurture what we have been given, life blossoms. 

As we enter these summer weeks, our challenge is simple. Notice the strawberries. Notice the blessings that have ripened quietly around you. Appreciate the people, opportunities, and moments already in your life. Because joy rarely comes from getting everything we want. More often, it comes from recognizing the sweetness that was there all along. 

Shabbat shalom. 

Give it a Rest

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This is the d’var Torah I delivered at Congregation Neveh Shalom on Friday, June 12, 2026.

One of the strange realities of being a parent—or a rabbi—is that sometimes the reaction seems wildly out of proportion to the offense. Here’s an example that may or may not be related to my life. I’ll let you decide. A child leaves a towel on the floor, and suddenly, you’re into a whole dissertation about responsibility, respect, and what kind of person they want to become. That’s because it’s not really about the towel; it’s about taking ownership of our actions and what it means to live a less cluttered life.  

That may help us understand one of the most troubling episodes in this week’s parshah. 

Parshat Sh’lach is remembered for the story of the spies. Twelve leaders scout the Promised Land. Ten return filled with tremendous fear. The people lose faith, and an entire generation is condemned to wander in the wilderness. 

But tucked near the end of the parshah is a much smaller story. A man is found gathering wood on Shabbat. He’s brought before Moses, and God instructs that he be put to death. No question, it’s one of the Torah’s hardest passages to comprehend. Gathering sticks hardly seems deserving of such a severe punishment. 

Many commentators note that this story must be read in context. The generation has just witnessed the consequences of the spies’ lack of faith. The people are standing at a crossroads. Will they become a covenantal community or simply a collection of individuals doing whatever they please? 

The medieval commentator Ramban suggests that the wood collector acted publicly and defiantly. We’re not merely talking about someone who forgot it was Shabbat or made an innocent mistake. It was a deliberate rejection of a communal commitment. 

But I don’t think the lesson stops there. Shabbat itself was never just about rest. It was the Israelites’ weekly declaration that they were no longer slaves. In Egypt, every day was a workday. Every day was about production. Shabbat taught a revolutionary truth: your worth is not measured by what you produce. 

The wood collector’s offense was not really about sticks. The sticks were simply the symptom. The deeper issue was an outright rejection of the sacred pause that would define Jewish life. 

The punishment feels severe because the Torah is emphasizing what is at stake. If the people can’t stop, can’t pause, can’t trust that the world will continue without their labor for one day, then the covenant itself is in jeopardy. 

Our challenge today isn’t having to put off the wood gathering for Shabbat. But it’s similar. Our challenge is not answering emails at dinner, not scrolling through our phones before bed, and not convincing ourselves that everything is urgent. 

Shabbat reminds us that holiness begins when we stop. 

This week, find one moment to put down that bundle of sticks you’ve been carrying. Take a walk. Share a meal. Sit with someone you love. Breathe. Sometimes the most sacred thing we can do is nothing at all.